


Varnished Cue

by Lachanophobic



Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Humor, I promise it's not that emo tho, Parenthood, Sex, jump in the emo bandwagon, there's also that, yeahh, yup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-27 17:00:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20951807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lachanophobic/pseuds/Lachanophobic
Summary: “So you like it.”He turned away immediately. “I don’t.”“Oh sure you do, I’ve learned you inside out Vegeta. You were thinking…” she moved a step nearer, invading his personal space, her mouth touched the skin of his neck, whispering against it, “how good I looked with that puffy perm, and how was it possible that someone noisy like me could have charmed the prince of all Saiyans…” her voice was hot against his skin, not warm, but blistering. A malicious lullaby capable of destroying all of his defenses. “And also… how stupid you are when you think you’re not enough.”





	Varnished Cue

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, I'm here to wrap up this delicious collection. I had so much fun writing this piece and absolutely enjoyed every second of the whole project. A big thank you to the amazing [Rogue_1102](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rogue_1102), [Lady_Red](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Red), [LadiSaiyan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadiSaiyan) and [Areo_ian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areo_ian) for making this possible and for writing all their absolutely beautiful one-shots. (If you haven't yet, go and read them all!) 
> 
> A special thanks to Froglady14 for beta-ing this piece and supporting me through this whole week!
> 
> Supposedly, this piece was to be written starting from [this video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NJeoJrkOtxE&feature=youtu.be) which I started to follow andddddd-- eheh, just read below. 
> 
> Enjoy!

“You’re putting many people out of work, you know that? Some _specialized companies_ would die to do this.”

“Yup, but _specialized companies_ can’t fly as well as you do.”

Trunks scoffed, “Because _they can’t fly at all_.” The day he’d not give in to every flight request of his little sister would coincide with his death. She was standing in the middle of the room, arms crossed and chin up - her stance screamed Vegeta from every pore, but her smiling and confident face was the spitting image of their mother; a look that Bulla had learned to mimic to a T after discovering the many benefits that came with ordering around the male side of Capsule Corporation. Still, her overall laid back and kind-hearted nature, that came without a doubt from their late grandpa, made it so easy to give in to her every request.

Trunks was lying on his back, hovering in the air near the ceiling with a big brush in one hand and a bucket in the other. “You could help, you know?” He eyed his sister, dipping his face.

“I’m doing that. Checking on you.” She curled her lips in a sunny smile and Trunks just sighed, returning to his task. What would his classmates think, seeing him so easily manipulated by his kid sister at seventeen? He decided his answer to the hypothetical question would be something like: ‘Well, you know… my mother is currently retaining the Guinness World Record for the longest grudge to have ever been held with a son since 558 and my father could bore a hole in my skull with just a flick of his pinky finger. You don’t really want to go through the whole rebel phase under those conditions.’

Trunks could say that his wannabe rebellious self had channeled all the frustrations coming with age through mind numbing training sessions. One day, Vegeta had decided that his adolescence was long expired, even though he remembered being eleven. Adulthood meant learning to survive through lethal sparring matches in the Gravity Chamber. He had been convinced, while growing up, that such a sudden change of heart in his father might have had something to do with the embarrassing display between them during the Majin assault. That suspicion had taken root in his mind after the arrival of his future self many years later.

His future self had shared with him - in the brief time he’d spent with them - many stories about sides of a father that he, his present son, had never seen. He remembered, when he was younger, that he used to sit with Mai on the time traveler’s lap listening to him going on for hours and hours about what happened during the fight against Cell, how their father had initially shunned them, but after had also saved his life, in a way. How the absence of that man in his life had left a gaping hole in his chest. How the grown-up version of himself used to ask to their mother about Vegeta, hungrily, about anecdotes and little slices of life. Talking to that polite, reserved alter ego had opened his eyes - many years later - on many things he took for granted. He took his father, his mother, his life for granted every time there was a peril… and never stopped to ponder about what would happen if suddenly the opportunity of possessing the Dragon Balls was taken away from them. So, he had strived to become a better man. A man that could live up to his father’s high expectations, keeping in mind that in another parallel world he hadn’t been so lucky. After that, their training had become more of a priority and had intensified so much that he’d spend grand part of the day with his father when he was not in school. Which made Trunks happy, immensely happy. He smiled a bit and lost in his reminiscing, did not notice that the bucket had tilted.

He heard a scream beneath him but when he finally snapped out of it and looked down; it was too late. Bulla was the one that had screamed, but the one soaked in pink paint was none other than the object of his prior thoughts.

“Oh fuck-“

Vegeta was standing there, arm raised in front of his face in a defensive stance - one he didn’t take as often anymore - as if he’d just taken a bullet for his daughter. He lowered the limb slowly, his expression flat and unreadable. Trunks couldn’t - not for the life of him - find a reason to laugh in his face, because that man wore the same identical expression he used to have during a serious fight and stared at him as though he was about to make mincemeat out of him for daring to spill paint on his pride. And pride, Trunks knew, these days translated as _Bulla_. He was sure of that, because it was the same for him.

They stared at each other for a long time until Trunks gave up and was forced to move his gaze away.

“Explain this.” Vegeta was sharp and concise in his request. Trunks flew down, touching the paved floor without a sound.

“She wants her room pink.” There wasn’t much to say… but he replied. Because every word shared with that man was so rare and precious that Trunks stored it in a box deep in his soul. Once again his thoughts drifted back to where they were just moments ago. How it boggled his mind how different the man standing in front of him was, compared to the man his other self had encountered. While he’d always been present in his life, he still felt like there was so much about him he did not know. That he wanted to know.

  
“And you’re painting it because…” Vegeta left the sentence open to be filled, something he never did. Trunks’ eyes widened. Small talk? Was he attempting…

“Uh…” he looked at the floor, then Bulla, who rolled her eyes, and returned to his father. “Because she asked me to.”

Vegeta cocked a brow, his silence seemed to prompt him to continue, but Trunks wasn’t sure. What else could he-

_Ah. _He sighed. “Forced me.”

“That’s not true!” Bulla intervened, “you liar. I just convinced him _nicely_—”

“_Nice_ is a word that doesn’t exist in a Saiyan vocabulary.”

“Okay, I kind of blackmailed him.” She finally confessed.

“Good.”

He recognized that game, and Bulla should too. Perhaps, she was too focused on gloating that she had forgotten. Thus, Trunks kept silent, curious to see how long it would stretch this time.

“But I will pay him.” She added, raising a hand in sign of promise. Bulla was no idiot, she was quite perspicacious for her age.

“Have you found an occupation recently?” Vegeta’s calm, stoic timbre didn’t change a iota. He turned a few inches toward his daughter, signaling to Trunks this was his cue to leave the room.

The teen obeyed, putting down his working tools and stepped out of the semi-tinted chamber.

Instead of going out, as he’d intended to, he slipped into his room with the full intention to eavesdrop on the conversation. However, he found an obstacle on his way to the wall.

“Hi, dear.” Bulma was already there, sitting on his bed, casually flipping through her phone while sipping on a dr. Pepper. She didn’t even look up from the screen, seeming engrossed in what she was doing.

“Mom?” He blinked, finding her presence therein enough out of character to feel spooked by her behavior.

“You’ve got such fine tastes. You’re the spitting image of your father when it’s about recognizing true beauty.” She said, so nonchalant that he wasn’t sure she was talking to him or just monologuing with a poltergeist.

“What are you…” his question turned into an incomprehensible sputtering, the smartphone in her hands was HIS phone. “Mom! What are you staring at? Is that my phone? Oh my god! You cracked the password! Don’t do that to my privacy! I—I swear that’s not what it looks like, we weren’t… I took those pictures unintentionally, it was just experimental-”

Bulma continued to scroll up and down, as if unaffected by his reaction.

“Stop! I feel so embarrassed! Mom, seriously.”

When she decided Trunks’ cheeks were baked enough, with a quick motion of the wrist, Bulma turned the phone over her first-born, snapping a picture of him. “Daw! This is too cute for words and absolutely my new wallpaper.”

“W-what?”

“Oh,” she finally looked at him in the eye, a gleeful glint sparked in her blue eyes. “This isn’t your phone, baby. I just switched the covers. Yours is over there,” she indicated to his desk, on top of it lay, untouched, the actual phone in question.

Trunks flushed scarlet, understanding just now his fatal mistake.

Bulma snapped a new photo. “This one is even better!”

“Give it a rest please!”

“About those pictures you mentioned before…”

He knew it. “Nothing. It’s nothing. Please, pretend I never said a thing!” He found his face buried in his hands immediately after, dismayed by having been so stupid to be fooled like that. No, even worse, he’d been the one fooling himself.

“You know I will,” she started, a motherly smile playing on her cherry lips. “I have a condition, though.”

Fantastic, he’d get on with his life just through blackmailing from his own family. When had that tradition started, anyway? From his father buying him with tricky ice-creams, impromptu visits to local playgrounds and then, when he was grown up enough, with threats which often involved his head or how bad he’d live without genitals? Or from Bulla, or his mother and her… wait, she didn’t threaten him- if he did something wrong it was endgame, grounded forever, say goodbye to your social life. So… this was the first time that she had done something like this. Ok, now the word ‘spooked’ could be interchangeable with ‘downright terrified.’

“W-what condition?”

“Leave the house.”

He was being evicted. At seventeen. Just for sexting online with his girlfriend. It wasn’t even real! And she’d seen through him so easily. Why kicking him out of the house, though?

“But I have nowhere to go-”

“Oh, come on, there are so many options… to Son’s, to Mai’s, what about the park?”

The park? That was ugly. “Can’t… we talk this more properly? I mean, I don’t even have a job yet.”

“I’ll give you your allowance.”

“But that’s not enough to-”

“Trunks, are we even on the same page? I want you to leave me and your father for a couple of hours to do things you and your sister wouldn’t like to know. You can take Bulla with you. I’m a stressed woman, I work all the day, I’m forced to use the Dragon balls because otherwise your father will soon look more like my son than my husband and I can’t always match his energy during the nig--”

“Okay! I’ve heard enough! Understood. Clear. Roger. I’m even moving out of the house if it stops you from spilling unnecessary information.”

“You’re so dramatic, like your father. You’re big enough to know how to know the ins and outs of anatomy.”

“Yes, I am - oh please, please, don’t use terms like big enough or ins and outs in this conversation - and I’m telling you that sons build up these imaginary worlds where their parents conceived them through holding hands at max, where they have no sexual attributes and don’t do what lovers do. I know this is a stupid fantasy but please, let me live in that blissful far fetched world for at least a couple more years.”

Bulma laughed, she laughed in a way he hadn’t heard her do in years. Her crystalline voice resounded in the room like sparkling water, and suddenly he was grateful that he was the one who induced those giggles. “Okay, go and save your sister from being scolded. Even if I know that Vegeta is doing everything but that.”

“Mom, were you eavesdropping?”

“Weren’t you about to do that as well?”

“Touché. I’m going.”

\---

“You cannot promise money you do not have to other people, especially not individuals living in your own household.” Vegeta admonished.

“But it’s my allowance,” Bulla protested.

“Exactly. Yours. Which is given to you by your mother, thus that money still belongs to her. You’re expected to bargain credits for what will ensure your survival. Your mother squanders what she gains because she works for that money. You’re not allowed to do so because you receive payments for free.”

“But papa, you do too...”

“Don’t talk back to me, my situation is different.”

“Why?” she pushed.

“Because I fight for my survival.”

“But I fight too, every day, at school.”

“You fight?” Vegeta seemed taken aback for a second; he had heard nothing about this. Bulla was a decent fighter, however her stance was still weak, her form sloppy, her strategic approach still unripe. She wasn’t ready for battle. “You are not allowed to harm humans.” He felt hypocritical.

“I’m not hurting them, papa. I’m just bored. They’re slower than me, dirty, immature, trash-talking little demons. Can’t I just skip some grades?”

“No, you can’t. You have to socialize with cubs your own age.” Which, in his mind, equalled to nonsense. Bulma had a strange way with educating their progeny, humans in general, in truth. On Vegetasei age never mattered, as long as they had enough strength to kill, cubs were ready for battle. Old or young, whoever their companions were, nobody cared. The only thing that mattered was the outcome. A Saiyan could barely care about his own life, let alone other individuals he’d probably never see again.

However, on Earth, things seemed different. Once he’d started opening up and became willing to understand their customs, he discovered that ‘children’ were spoiled rotten. Many of them grew up lacking a sense of individuality or independence and couldn’t even take care of their own needs until an age that spanned from six or even more years sometimes. Saiyans typically cut ties to prevent such abominations to walk among their armies. That was why he had left Trunks and his mother on their own at first. He firmly believed she would let him go as soon as he was out of the womb. Because, when the Trunks of the future asked why he hadn’t rescued his family when Gero had almost killed them, what he replied was also what he truly thought. He didn’t care. Nobody had ever taught him to care, so he didn’t think he’d needed to.

However, he started to understand what caring meant just when Cell had killed Trunks in front of his own eyes. At first it had been jealousy, because it wasn’t fair that Kakarot’s son would be the one beating that idiotic cockroach. It should have been him, or at least his son. His progeny had to be stronger, he had to be, because he’d grown up believing that. But humans were frail. Half-saiyan were not completely Saiyan. He had been… wrong, and being wrong had tilted the axis of his own world, making him feel powerless, angry, heart... broken. He’d wanted to stop fighting. He didn’t give a shit anymore. If he couldn’t even prevent his own son’s death, if he wasn’t strong enough to even protect something, someone, then--- then it wasn’t worth the sweat, the sacrifice, the determination. Suddenly he had felt empty. Kakarot was dead, there was a new surrogate, his spawn. He didn’t have to strive anymore. His son had been useless; as useless as he had been. He had been confused. Something he’d never been in his life. And so, like that… he started to learn.

Bulla was watching him with expectant eyes, awaiting for him to give her advice or something along the lines. Words of wisdom he wasn’t capable to offer, because all he was good at was the art of war. Yet here he was, scolding her. Playing the role of a father when the only fatherly words that crept into his mind were ‘fight, kill, die for it. Don’t let anyone take you down, because you’re the one who’ll destroy them.’ She was also human, not just a Saiyan. They were living on the Earth, not on Vegetasei. Fuck, did he ever give a shit about his native planet to talk so high and mighty of it? Did he even know any fucking thing about Vegetasei? The truth was, he was stuck in the middle, between two cultures that were not his own. He’d never been part of the Saiyan culture, because that goddamn mud ball had been destroyed without him even knowing it. He wasn’t part of this planet yet, because even though having lived there for more than a whole decade… he always refused to come to terms with his side that started to get acclimatized. He didn’t know shit.

He felt as if he didn’t know his progeny and his mate as he thought he did. So, once again, like many times before had happened… he wondered if he was truly fit for this role. For this life. For this planet.

“Go.” He said just that. The hardness in his voice suggesting to Bulla that their conversation was over.

She was about to retort, but Trunks knocked the door, saying something that Vegeta ignored.

Vegeta felt their gazes on him, both of them were watching him. “Get out, the both of you.” He didn’t care if this wasn’t his room, he didn’t care who it belonged to, what belonged to him. He was stranded on that same road again, among his demons, right between the feeling of being useless and the desire to climb on top of everything.

“Papa…”

“I said get out!” At his command, the ceiling lamp started to swing, shook by low frequency tremors like forewarning shocks before a big earthquake. Bulla took a step back, her eyes wide. He felt the weight of his rumbling voice too late, he felt frozen in a limbo where a side of him wanted to reach out, calm her down, tell her it was a mistake. Another stopped him, his pride. A pride that told him he wasn’t wrong, that only the weak dwelled on their actions. His convictions were derailing from that illusion of security he’d become too fatigued to build back up. Seeing Trunks putting his hand on Bulla’s shoulder, taking her away as if to tell her she could do nothing to quell his fury made the world spin around at full-throttle.

Until a firm hand stopped it.

“Calm down, Vegeta.” Bulma’s fingers were entwined in his, and he had missed when that had happened. His voice rumbled again in his throat, the desire of wanting to shake her off overriding the need of tightening the grip.

She didn’t let him do that. He turned away but with more vehemence she clung to him. “I’m not letting you go. Not this time.”

He had no words to countermand that. He tensed up, staring fiercely at the wall of the same color of his shirt.

“You look incomplete,” Bulma said, starting one of her usual speeches where she chatted for hours and he didn’t respond. His lack of feedback didn’t seem to bother her, it had never bothered her. He only felt the flutter of her touch on his face, the tip of her finger ghosted over his cheek, stealing some paint from it. Then, it was gone and was on his back. She was drawing something, writing something.

Finally, words returned to him. “What are you doing?” He didn’t ask, his voice demanded to know, irked and restless.

“Turn your head and you’ll see.”

He didn’t want to. It meant facing her; it meant letting her see the true expression of betrayal. She nudged him gently. “You have just to sneak a peek, there’s a mirror. I’ll let you go if you’ll hate it, I promise.”

He hated how he trusted her. He followed her encouragement, looking at the reflection in the mirror. He could see her, but concentrated on what she had written on his black shirt.

**namdaB**

His nostrils flared with an ill-concealed mocking sniff.

“So you like it.”

He turned away immediately. “I don’t.”

“Oh sure you do, I’ve learned you inside out Vegeta. You were thinking…” she moved a step nearer, invading his personal space, her mouth touched the skin of his neck, whispering against it, “how good I looked with that puffy perm, and how was it possible that someone noisy like me could have charmed the prince of all Saiyans…” her voice was hot against his skin, not warm, but blistering. A malicious lullaby capable of destroying all of his defenses. “And also… how stupid you are when you think you’re not enough.”

He stiffened again, harder. His jaw set and he ground his teeth.

“My man is a pompous try-hard…”

“That description fits the scarred weakling, he’s not your man.”

Bulma smiled against his earlobe now, her tender lips brushing against the auricle. “Rather than feeding his delusions, he fights twice as hard to overcome them,” Now her tongue flickered out, tasting his skin. She started to tease him with small bites on the cartilage and his breathing started to itch.

“My man is a training maniac, a temperamental brute and an honorable alien,” she continued as her hand disentwined from his, tracing the contour of his arm, testing his muscles.

“My man is not a perfect husband and a dad-in-training, but the best father his children could ever want.” Like snakes, daft fingers found their way under his button-up shirt, palms worked on his abs touching, testing, and caressing. Her impertinent way of enmeshing his every sense was maddening but pleasurable to no end. She emptied his body from tensions and worries like a witch, and she took her time, always. Like now, as she unbuttoned his garments starting from downward, each pop sent his body on fire. Muscles jumped under manicured nails, that scraped and scratched. He stood motionless and alert, but gradually, his body started to relax under her manipulation.

“My man smells of battle and igneous rocks, but also of aftershave, the one I gifted to him the first time he took a shower here. I love your smell, Vegeta.” She went on, unaware that every word made him tremble inside like a newborn baby. That broke him in a way that nobody else could. But he accepted this kind of defeat. If it came from her, he didn’t mind. “I sent the kids away to have my way with you. Am I a bad mother for this?”

“Yes.” His reply sounded weak even to himself. He didn’t like when it came out like that, undone already, and full of hunger.

Bulma, behind him now, let out a low moan… that against his ear felt as intense as a battle cry. Enough. She had won.

He turned over, maybe too fast for her to even process it. His shirt fell open at his sudden motion. He grabbed Bulma’s buttocks and hauled her against the wall; her back thumped against the fresh paint, smearing her cerulean hair as her head was pushed upwards. They shared a look, just one. “She will be mad,” he said, eyes numbed by predatory desire.

“She won’t know. You’ll repaint her room again as fast as a windwhirl and our sins will be long gone by the time she returns.” Her lips unwrapped like a gift, plump and wet, just for him. He caught them. For a moment, their breathing stilled. Tongues met, twirling and joining, knowing where to lunge and how. A common ground they had both mapped out together for ages but still proved to be littered with unexplored territory.

However, her body, was the part of her he knew the most. Where he could play every card without feeling remorse, where he could lose and die a thousand times and still wouldn’t give a shit about pride and honor. There, against her, above or below… he felt free.

Clothes came off fast, too fast. The angry growl of a zip, the rustling of fabric against hair. The irritating hook of her bra, so stupidly stubborn under his big thumbs that he always ended up tearing it away. Her oinks-moans, renamed that way because she couldn’t decide if the sight of her underthings in shreds was more erotic or funny.

He cupped her freed breasts, squeezing them together while his nose dived in between them. Bulma squirmed, wrapping her legs around his torso and tensing up under his breath. “Don’t do that,” her words were charged with unbridled want, the kind of desire that made the last word sound almost hiccuped. “Lick me, Vegeta. All of me.”

Her request made his blood rush. Vegeta inhaled sharply and his mouth opened on the nearest curve of flesh, eagerly, to grant her wish. An experimental bite rewarded him with a hissed groan. He couldn’t help but aim his gaze upward, following every change in her expression at each stimulation. Beneath his thumbs her nipples hardened fast and her whole body tightened around his midsection; both arms and legs clung to him desperately and this kind of addiction she seemed to have developed toward his attentions made him feel giddy, powerful, worthy. Among the changes he’d managed to discern in himself, he’d discovered that what he had always given for granted, with her, felt the exact opposite. The confused recollections of this past pieced together the image of a kid who firmly believed that the value of a man was measured by strength and strength alone. That possessing that meant to own the key to every pleasure. It never occurred to him that someday he could experience that kind of debasement. The first time they’d had sex, she didn’t come and he didn’t care. The second time was the same and once again, he hadn’t cared. What mattered the most was his own completion. The third time nothing had changed, but he’d started to feel a new sensation grow within him: it annoyed him. Irked. Soon, his sole satisfaction didn’t matter anymore. She had dared to insult him and her insolence wouldn’t go unnoticed. He started to tackle her as soon as he was done with his training, and later, it became a new obsession. Something that kept him still anchored to reality alongside the will to surpass and defeat Kakarot. Nights felt too short and days too long. And a single intercourse didn’t satisfy him anymore. He started to want her, truly desire her body in a way he’d never yearned for material assets before. And the more ruthless nature was, denying him victory, the more he found the chase intriguing. Until… carnal avidity translated into something deeper. A nameless sense of shame that scared and enthralled him at the same time. He wasn’t worthy of her and suddenly he wanted to be worthy so much that his chest hurt.

Now, seeing her lids fluttering closed, knowing that she was abandoning herself in his hands made his soul tremble with the opposite feeling. In war that was trust. It had no other name. That action alone was enough to arouse him to an aching degree. One hand left her breast, traveling downward and along her naked body toward her entrance that was pressing against his abdomen. She was already wet, so wet that he could feel her fluids trickling down his pelvis. The corner of his mouth quirked upwards against her flesh, all the while it moved to the center of her breast, taking it in his mouth. The friction of his teeth and the suction prompted Bulma to arch her back and expose her chest more. She was spying him under half-mast eyelids, the blue in her glossy eyes was darker, full of hunger… ravaging.

“Goddamnit,” she said, through ground teeth, “just push that finger inside.” Her voice and the meaning of her words clashed so atrociously that he liked that. It very much resembled him, this vulgar woman. Although he would not voice his thoughts, he responded with a satisfied sneer and this time didn’t contest her, his fingertips pressed on her clitoris, rubbing on the bud of flesh until they were coated with her juices.

“God if I hate you when you do th-- oh!” she choked on her words, when a strangled moan took their place. She’d told him uncountable times how awfully sensitive that place was but he enjoyed particularly when she writhed and jolted as the pressure increased. She bit her lips and started to grind against his finger, up and down. “How can you be so calm, like you’re fucking drinking coffee--” she tried to hold back a moan, useless, he could see how fast her chest had started to rise and fall. His own breath hitched too; he was growing restless, ignoring his neglected cock was proving to become a harder task the more the years passed. It didn’t matter how much stronger, how durable or how resistant he became… she was his goddamn weakness. The only weakness he couldn’t deny.

“Enough Vegeta,” she was growing frustrated and her frustration became his drive. Her voice scattered in his overloaded brain too low, too husky, too many things to bear. “Oh my god, enough just fu-!” His hands moved faster than her voice. Bulma squawked, flailing to search for his shoulders when he suddenly grabbed her legs and knelt on the floor, making her back slither along the wall. “Vegeta?!”

“You’re babbling nonsense, so I will give you a real reason to freak out,” he looked up again, briefly, while adjusting her legs on top of his shoulders. She must have understood his intentions, because her fingers sank into his flesh in trepidation. Letting out a shaky breath, she tensed up, and Vegeta returned his gaze between her legs where her core twitched for attention. She spread them more, lifting her hips to rub against his mouth. Whereas she probably expected a tentative lap, he dodged the attack. His tongue dug immediately within her, capturing her lips in a literal French Kiss. The unexpected sucking made his companion tremble and having his foes tremble under him was what the prince enjoyed the most.

“You’re playing... dirty,” she was attempting small talk again, even if she was out of breath, unbelievable. “But...oh god, oh! God if I don’t love it when you do. Again, do that again, do it forever--” he needn’t be told to comply, for him, was enough to see her already undone like that to drop all pretenses and finally go wild. Within seconds Bulma repainted that wall with her skin. She kept turning her head right and left, smearing her cheeks with fresh electric pink. The more she tried to clench her legs around his neck, the more he spread them apart and lapped, suckled, kissed. One of her hands clutched his hair, tugging at it sharply and attempting to guide his motions as if holding a leash. Sometimes he let her, other times, he changed direction, making her angrier and hungrier.

Sometimes they crossed gazes, which grew longing and desperate at every passing second. He’d never tell her how much he liked the sight of her tongue playing with her thumb, or the way her frizzy hair stuck to her sweaty forehead, or what sort of strange sorcery had him spellbound to that image even while having sex; thinking that, perhaps, she’d been the true first beautiful thing he’d ever seen in his whole ugly life. His mouth moved north, tracing an invisible line with the tip of the tongue, from her slit to her belly button, passing through wispy curls. She tasted like something he couldn’t name, because no other thing in the universe could match the flavor. He just knew it gave him goosebumps, made him insatiable and sent him out of control.

A control that slipped once again when he couldn’t take it anymore. He pulled her down onto the floor with him, falling onto his back dead weight, mindful enough to let go of her legs and catch her again easily by her hips. Bulma’s eyes were wide on top of him, her hair spilled forward. “You want me dead,” she said, breathing heavily, “I’m too old for these stunts.”

Once again her words didn’t match her facial expression, nor her timbre… but he hadn’t further time to decipher her, because she grabbed his face and pulled it against hers with so much urge that he almost dropped her. Their tongues became furious against each other, and at some point they were rolling on the papers scattered on the floor, they crunched and tore under their weights.

Bulma pawed him as if they hadn’t had sex just the night before. “I take it back,” her hot breath scalded his already scorching lips, she kissed him once, then twice, then trice, “I can’t really age with you by my side. Actually, I’ve never felt this young… not even at sixteen.” Moans and licks broke her confessions. She was on top of him when her hand sneaked downwards between their moist bodies, tightening her fingers around his shaft.  
She must have noticed his searching gaze, because she added, “Wanna watch?” While lifting just enough to create some room to show what she was doing.

Vegeta didn’t reply, couldn’t reply. He could just stare at her malicious smile, at her full lips wet of saliva and follow the path she’d opened for him. She knew he enjoyed that, when she leaned on her heels and raised to position him to her entrance, how much he yearned to see the very moment of their joining; she too, watched, so shameless, as she always had been.

Bulma sat on him slowly, supported by his steady hands and he trembled, as the feeling of spreading her insides open filled him with a rush of adrenaline. Heat fanned out to his lungs, tendons, veins, and he voiced this sweltry emotion by letting out a satisfied groan. His head snapped backward, hitting the floor. For a moment he couldn’t help but squint his eyes. In the blurred chaos that was his sight, he spied his wife, the wonder of her mouth opening silently, her eyes rolling backwards overwhelmed by indescribable pleasure, the slight bounce of her breasts as she curved her spine.

His fingers dug into her fleshy hips and impatiently he closed their distance with a deep thrust, burying himself to the hilt. She hiccuped, screaming her want freely, and she started to sway on him, first slowly, like a dance, swinging her pelvis. He felt the need to bend his legs, forcing most of his strength on the plant of his feet.

Vegeta started to move at her pace, following her maddening pace… until she broke it, almost immediately, starting to rise and fall with more urgency on him, which was when he blocked her, setting his own rhythm in a crescendo of rapid and deep thrusts.

Their skin clapped, the paint on their bodies mixed with sweat and pre-cum, their breaths intermingled between searching mouths and sex oaths.

“I love you.” She repeated, “I love you,” she cried and kept whispering and moaning that sentence until they came.

Bulma didn’t move anymore after she fell on top of him, exhausted and apparently contented. A sigh left her lips, her hand lazily played with his now limp dick. “You have a few bad habits hard to kill.”

“Name which of the thousand.” He replied drily.

“Okay, we should probably talk about those mid-preliminary suplexes. I can’t still tell if it’s you just trying to kill me or it’s a Saiyan way to invite me to fuck- either way, I would appreciate a warning.”

“I don’t warn my enemies when I fight. And before you say anything, you are the one in the bed.”

Bulma propped herself on an elbow on his chest, a cheshire smile played on her mouth, “Are you telling me you always fuck with your enemies?”

“Mostly.” He shrugged, “You’re the only one I fuck, though.”

“I’m so honored.” She said, he was staring at the ceiling, but even if he didn’t see her, he could hear the sarcastic laugh around the words.

“Why do you say that just when we have sex?” His eyes widened for a fraction, the sudden question rolled out off his tongue before he could stop it.

“Define that, princeling.”

“You know what. That.”

“Uh, you mean a string of ‘fuck me please, oh, ah, more, faster, harder…”

“No.” He kept staring intently at the ceiling, ignoring her unnecessary - and embarrassing - reminder.

“Oh. Ohhh. This is unexpected.” Her calm, unperturbed reply quelled his rising anxiety. “You know, they say that voicing your feelings during sex makes them less meaningful. I disagree… anddd…” she raised on her fours, popping into his vision to catch his gaze. “What if I told you something like that like… every day, maybe in front of Son or our children?”

“Don’t you dare.”

“Precisely.”

He tried to look away, “So you’re holding back because of me.”

But she caught him again. “Never. I just want to keep our things between us, as you do.” She smiled. He didn’t get why she would do that, he was admitting that he was ashamed of their intimacy. He wasn’t. Not really. A part of him still considered such exchanges out of his league, incomprehensible, even awkward.

“This was ailing you?” She asked, sounding careful.

“Nothing ails me.” He lied.

“Of course, but just so you know… what I said before was true. Even though you could definitely help more in this house, I still wouldn’t trade what I’ve built with you with anything else.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Maybe, but so are you. I like to fuck my enemy, if that enemy is you.”

Slowly, he reached out, tentatively wrapping his arms around her body to drag her down. “Shut up, _insufferable weirdo_.”

She sighed against his chest, smiling. “You’re welcome, _melodramatic edgelord_.”

\---

That day, Trunks swore to every God that he’d never let people blackmail him ever again. He came back with Bulla - asleep on his back - just in the late afternoon, when the ki of his parents had finally moved away from that goddamn room.

Looking at the staircase leading to his room, he jutted down a mental memo: _next thing I’m going to buy is a new bed, just in case._


End file.
